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For those of you preserving the content of this site so you can use the verbal brilliance imbedded within as evidence at my eventual competency hearing, I think it’s safe to index this one as: “Huh?”
In my own little world as I perceive it, there’s a theory gaining popularity in the zeitgeist which suggests that life as we know it is basically a simulation.
It would seem to me that those who subscribe to this theory rationalize their cognitive dissonance away by describing their own creation as some extravagant coding instead of a more intelligent design.
One of the terms thrown out there in the same conversation of a simulation theory is code reuse.
Since this is just some background table setting for the real point of this post, I’m not going to put on too big of a display of my ignorance on the subject. Just know that code reuse as it applies to simulation theory explains various ironies we encounter and the perceptions we have about history repeating itself.
That’s not a perfect explanation, but for porpoises of today’s magnum opus, it’s spot on.
Consider the irony of the first time I ever sat on a jury where the last name of the defendant who had been charged with assault and battery was Slaughter. Some would say that very happenstance was the simulation winking at us .
Did I mention the perception of history repeating itself?
Of course I did.
Never mind all of the simulation theory crap. I just needed it to get this little game started, much like moving that first pawn up two spaces before moving the horsey or castle pieces.
Here in central Texas in the middle of November, it’s just about time to pack away the cargo shorts for a few months in favor for putting some britches on.
Not quite, but we’re almost there.
I’ve found myself in recent years to be in need of some sleeping britches during these cooler times. The drawstring on one pair is all jacked up, the material is degraded in several places, and the stitching in the inseam does more to reveal my gooch-adjacent gear more than it does to cover it, especially when I’m seated comfortably with my legs up in the recliner.
The other pair is in a little bit better shape, but also possesses hole revealing holes.
A few weeks ago, I ventured out of the abode in order to procure a couple of pairs of sleeping britches. Upon visiting the local mass merchandizer where most of my clothing originates nowadays, I made my way over to the Cheap Garments for Middle Aged Men Who Could Really Give a Crap What They Look Like section to procure something I was hoping would be fabulously ugly to sleep in during the winter month.
Sadly, I didn’t find anything that was fabulously ugly.
Instead, I found a trigger for a neural pathway associated with an event I reported on this very website over 11 years ago.
Visons went through my head when I saw that garment.
There was an under-the-sink disaster in the making, all for the lack of a lousy compression ring.
There was a real estate agent doing shoddy work on my Mom’s kitchen.
There was the vision of Mom chewing the guy out for half-assing his way through the remodel.
Granted, those are all memorable events, however they failed in comparison to the fact that Mom was wearing a pair of moose print flannel pajamas as she laid into that guy with all of the vim and vigor she used on rare occasions in the formative years of yours truly.
Certainly, I may have had a flashback or two when she chewed that guy out, but it wasn’t so impactful that I didn’t stop to get a picture of those jammies to memorialize on my website.
In all fairness, I should have been mad at Mom for interrupting my little game with that guy. I was well on my way to triggering cognitive dissonance in the hapless fool before she stepped in with a more direct and transparent approach.
Okay so where was I?
Oh right, sleeping britches.
Ladies and gentlemen, if we were in a simulation, this would be another example of said program winking at me. After all, how many times would I ever encounter moose printed jammies?
For those of you keeping score, the count is now once every 11.5 years or so.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check the compression ring on the P trap under the sink.
